The Eff Up Artist

I knead headaches like a seasoned chef

I marinate disappointment as if it was chicken

I serve cocktails of frustrations

Because, somehow, I have learnt the art

Of not giving a damn

And when history of ‘effing’ is finally written

All my names shall occupy the first four places

Because, when you serve me my poison

I become an artiste –

An ‘effing’ greatest ‘eff’ up artistes

I just can’t help – I have tried a thousand times

The artiste in me looms like a colossus

I can’t ignore him 

Disjointed

 And, 

for the love of things, 

frowned upon things, 

things of the world, 

a man smiles at oblivion 

And, 

for the price of dreaming is too high, 

and the lazy bones creak under its weight, 

dreams demand more than one can give

the slow ebb of time passes by. 

before you bring me a cup of poison 

look at the disjointed bones 

disjointed dreams, 

and worry not about why I am who I am 

The Bleak Existence

 the essence of life wanes 

as the clock ticks - 

a silent diabolic tick. 

A signal to an impending doom 

Where are the crevices, 

nooks and crannies 

to hide a weary soul 

from the vagaries of living

The toils. 

The frustrations. 

The debauchery. 

and bars set set too high 

let me sit on the sina taabu 

and ruminate, one more time, 

for the thousandth time, 

of this bleak existence  

Exquisite Pains

 I have grown accustomed to these pains, 

these exquisite pains, 

pains that glitter inside my bones 

For in feeling them

I am filled with dread, 

the ever-numbing dread that 

I am still alive 

The Toil

 the sun unwraps darkness 

revealing a gift to mankind 

a gift of endless toils 

for it is the price we pay 

if only to stay alive 

the gift of light is fine 

a fine for our desire for exquisite 

or unrefined living 

or for survival - it does not matter 

That Night

And when you smiled 

bathing the night sky with an alluring gleam 

I knew there was much more to it 

than mere infatuation 

There was more to those pearly white teeth 

revealed to me under the night sky 

You asked me to hug you

God, you asked me to hug you 

Like I did not know what a man was supposed to 

Because I did not know what to feel then 

I wasn't sure how to act 

But then we lived through the awkwardness 

The awkwardness thawed 

and warmth slipped into our hearts 

melting every fibre of resistance 

Being Broke

With a face of grim concentration, as though you are being watched by an enthralled audience, you deliver a prophecy: ‘ii ni ile wiki gas itaisha.’ You see, the conditions are perfect – you are broke and have no prospects of seeing any money in the foreseeable future. the trouble with the prophecy is that you do not know the exact date or time the gas will sneak a surprise on you. But you have a rough idea: it will happen when you are jovial, when you are halfway cooking ugali, and at approximately seventeen minutes before midnight.

It just happens that when you have no money bad stuff and surprises sneak up on you. It is in the constitution under article (7) (f). There is nothing much you can do about it except chin up and get used to it. There just isn’t any school, or app that shows you the percentage of gas left in your cylinder. And you, right there, have the audacity to think that we are civilized? Well, if you think so, why don’t you cook with it?

At that point you have no energy to resist the thought that some people’s lives are far much better than yours. People who use firewood to cook. First of all, there is a way food cooked with firewood tastes so much better. It is as though there is a hidden cooking intellect hidden in the sooth-producing source of fuel. Second, you’d know in advance when you are about to run out of firewood, and plan your cooking. There is no way, in a hundred years (unless it rains), you would wake up in the middle of the night to make a meal.

The last time you checked out, there was a student who had invented an app that would tell the amount of gas left in your cylinder. It involved a laptop, and some application that eludes even your wildest imaginations. It would save you a lot, that app. But you’d have to make that university student rich first. Which might be something you are reluctant because you cannot figure out how such a man’s brains works while yours only comes up with the most mundane stuff like: ‘let me have a drink. I may have ideas.’ Then you have ideas, and it all revolves around having another drink. That goes on until your wallet begins making hearty jokes when you tell it about other better ideas. Usually it is the following day when you wake up with only 50 shillings and an unopened packet of condom.